


The Way He Looks

by foxygrampaglasses



Series: If You'd Have Me [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dysphoria, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Trans Character, its a feel good fic I promise, trans author, trans!inquisitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 14:37:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12559584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxygrampaglasses/pseuds/foxygrampaglasses
Summary: Owaine worries Cullen is with him for the wrong reasons. Cullen seeks Krem's advice to help lift Owaine's confidence.





	1. His Face Looked So Much Like Yours

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter is about PTSD, but is mostly set up for the second chapter. It was originally supposed to be entirely about PTSD but I had other things on my mind, I suppose. Also, I know I have "trans author" tagged, I also want to mention that I do have PTSD as well. I'm just not sure how to tag that.
> 
> The song of inspiration for this fic is A Hole In The Earth by Daughter (the whole Before The Storm album is very relateable to this fic)
> 
> If you enjoy this fic, check out the rest of the series! You can also check out art inspired by these fics on my tumblr: sirotterpup dot tumblr dot com.
> 
> Oh and please comment if you enjoyed this fic! I love talking with readers, it's my favorite part of writing fic.

"He had a full-blown panic attack on the battlefield."

 

Cullen's brows fell, furrowed, as he raised his head to greet Varric. "Yes, welcome back, good to see you too." He said. "Now who did what? Context please."

 

Varric leaned against the wall next to the creaky wooden door entrance to Cullen's office. The window behind his desk illuminated the Commander in a heavenly glow that sunk into the hungry shadows and lit the dust motes up like daytime fireflies. Amidst the bookshelves and heavy scent of parchment and candles and warm red Ferelden drapery- It was the perfect set up for a hero to fall in love. Varric bit down.

 

"The Inquisitor, sir." Varric didn't feel as satisfied as he had hoped he would when Cullen's face went slack. "In the middle of fighting some red Templars. Well-" Varric shrugged away from the wall. "I think that's when it started anyway. He didn't run until we were done with them. But it took us until sunset to find him." Cullen's eyes had fallen to his desk, to the many crumpled corners of parchment from all corners of the world. His lips hung parted, perpetually trying to get words to them.

 

"Is he-"

 

"Fine. Like I said, he kept it together until we finished the bunch off. There were a few strays we found while searching for him, but nothing we couldn't handle." Varric sighed, gruff and strained. He really, truly wanted to blame the Commander, with his folded hands and shame glossed eyes and thick worry lines and three-days-no-sleep undereye bags- Varric couldn't put it all on Curly.

 

"Red Templars, you say?" Cullen asked. Varric hummed. "Got a look at one of their faces. You know, their helmets cover their faces. Their...eyes." Varric shifted his weight. He wondered if he would have reacted the same way. “Murderer” wasn’t the word he thought of first when describing himself, but it was easy when you never had to look them in the eye. "That’s what I think happened, from what little I could get out of Marigold."

 

"Where is he?" Cullen finally lifted his head, and his whole body, chair scratching against the stone flooring. Varric threw up a flat hand.

 

"Hold it right there, Curly." He said, knocking just enough gusto out of the Commander. "He's in a delicate state. You think hard about what you want to do. Or worse, say." His lip twitched. Cullen let his held breath seep from him as he fell back into his chair.

 

"We had a fight before you left for Emprise." Cullen said, fingers at his temples. "He thinks, or rather worries, I wouldn't be interested in him if he had been born...the way most of us think of men."

 

Now this was an interesting nugget. Varric sensed a longer conversation approaching and decided to take a seat in one of the chairs by Cullen's desk. "Completely baseless?"

 

Cullen took a breath between clenched teeth. Varric leaned toward the Commander as if drawn in by his held breath, eyes narrowing. "Right?"

 

"I have always known of the Inq-" Cullen coughed, no he couldn't use titles for this. "Owaine. He could have kept it to himself, but he trusted his council. The chance is slim, but he knew secrets could be exploited. Could get him killed."

 

"Don't dodge the question." Varric didn't need the backstory, he had been there.

 

Owaine, not yet appointed Inquisitor but still the Herald of Andraste, had gathered his inner circle. Meetings were frequent then, back in the days of Haven. No one thought much of the call to the table and was unprepared, to say the least. He spent no time easing into the topic, the first words from his mouth being "I have a vagina."

 

Even Varric had been confused, laughed even. He wasn't unfamiliar with Owaine's kind, the men and women who walked among them with surprises in their undergarments. He'd maybe slept with such a woman on occasion, but most did not offer up that information so steadfastly. Cassandra had been the one to break the silence, "Please do not waste our time, Herald."

 

Owaine had bristled. "I will drop my trousers right this moment if you do not listen to me." That had shut Princess right up, with a lovely flush blooming over her sharp cheeks as an extra garnish. He was honest, painfully so, but Varric couldn't argue with his motives. Even a moment of hesitation, say, the shock of your leader's body being exploited, could kill.

 

"I wanted to think of him as a woman." Cullen said, head in his hands. "I'd never met someone-someone like him. I was so confused, why did everyone simply accept this? A man with a woman's body? It was impossible."

 

"If you ever said as much, it never made it to my ears." Varric sat back in his chair. "I'm no Nightingale, but I feel like I would have heard something."

 

"No. I kept those feelings to myself, and there's not a day I'm not grateful for that foresight." Cullen said. Varric hated how easily he believed this man, ex templar and recovering addict. He couldn't quite parse if his caution was born of labels or personal history.

 

"And now?" Varric pressed.

 

"I think he's right." Cullen confessed, and Varric's stomach twisted. "I've...shared looks with men before. Glances. Once a kiss, but nothing more. I-" Cullen's breath stuttered. "I thank the Maker for Owaine, the way he is. Had he been born as we would expect, I'm not certain I would have looked twice. I wouldn’t have let myself." He said.

 

Varric let his stomach settle. Perhaps he had been too quick to judge. The Maker, as the flocking chantry sisters would incessantly remind him, works in mysterious ways.

 

"Took a man with the look of a woman to let you accept your gay ass, huh?" Varric's lips quirked into a smirk.

 

"Bisexual." Cullen corrected, the dim lighting doing nothing to hide the blush bleeding into his skin.

 

"But," Varric continued. "Now Marigold is questioning how you see him, correct? You let yourself fall for him because of his body, which some might call a woman's."

 

"I... believe so."

 

"And there's the issue of what he did at Emprise." Varric said, steering Cullen back to the problem at hand now that he had context.

 

"What do I even say to him..." Cullen slumped back in his chair.

 

Varric shrugged, jumped out of his seat. "The best poets know when to be silent." He shuffled over to the door, satisfied with their conversation.

 

"But you do have to go see him." He winked, and then he was gone.

 

\---

 

All Cullen had to do was open the door to Owaine's chamber and the man was down the stairs and launching himself at the Commander. Cullen back pedaled from the force, slamming against the freshly closed door. Owaine was all but hanging from Cullen's shoulders, pressing his soft cheek into the crook of his neck and oh, he's wet, is he crying? Cullen breathed in his Inquisitor's scent, his arms encircling the elf.

 

Cullen climbed the stairs with Owaine in his arms. He knelt at the foot of the bed, letting Owaine come to rest on the crumpled sheets. And, oh, yes, he was crying.

 

Eyes glossy and cheeks blotchy, Cullen had to fight his own tears looking at his love so sullen. Owaine wiped at his eyes and nose, sniffing unattractively. Cullen didn't remember raising his arms but even still he was pulling Owaine back to his chest, tugging his gloves off behind his love's head to run his fingers through the silky ginger hair that earned him the nickname Marigold.

 

His mind stormed with words.

 

It’s okay. I’m here. I’m sorry.

 

He was no poet, but Varric’s advice called to him.

 

The silence gave voice to the roundness of Owaine’s hands on Cullen’s chest. The sheets whispered as Owaine pulled himself into Cullen’s lap, folding himself up the way only an elf could. Their hearts spoke through their pulse where they met between skin.

 

The clouds had drifted considerably, the blue of the sky shifting from the light robin’s egg of morning to the intense cerulean of afternoon. Owaine spoke. And his words were not broken, but chipped around the edges, his voice hoarse from his anxiety gripped throat. He focused on the fingers in his hair and the itchy trail of salt left by dried tears.

 

“I killed a red templar...” The sentence was hollow, searching for a deeper meaning Owaine kept locked in his heart and mind. Cullen stayed his patience, hanging on his love’s heavy breath for more words.

 

“His face looked so much like yours.”

 

Owaine’s eyes were so wide, and so empty.

 

The memory took hold of him.

 

His staff had been blown from his hands. A sword lain forgotten by his feet, chipped nearly to breaking. With the deft quickness of a well-practiced mage, he used the toe of his boot and kicked the sword’s hilt into his hands. The templar was slow to react. Owaine held his body with all the strength he had as the templar’s lyrium hollowed body sank onto the sword. Halfway through a sigh of relief, his eyes lifted.

 

This moment would become an eternity that would haunt him like a waking nightmare.

 

A rocky lined breakage in the templar’s helmet revealed a single red eye, cheekbones, cupid’s bowed lips, curling blonde hair. His face inches from Owaine, and his thick blood sticking between his fingers. His skinny wrists ached. The weight of the templar was unbearable, but he would not let go. He’d run Cullen through. He’d killed him.

 

They fell to the snow as one.

 

Cullen’s fingertips brought Owaine back to the present. Hands on the sides of his face, Cullen was gasping, nearly in tears. “Love? Have you come back?”

 

His eyes traveled the room, and his lover. “I’m sorry.” He cupped one of Cullen’s hands, tying the present to the lines of his lover’s palms on his cheeks. Cullen shook his head, his worried brows relaxing into relief.

 

“You had me worried...what was that?”

 

Owaine could feel his blood beating, shaking him from within his veins. The green in his palm was glowing, steady with gentle pulses in intensity.

 

“It’s like being drawn into the Fade.” Cullen dropped his hands from Owaine’s face to clasp his marked hand. “Like I’m just...walking through living memories. They find me when I least expect them.” Owaine swayed, fell against Cullen’s solid body. He smelled of pens and paper and old, creaking aspen.

 

“Leliana says we all have our own haunts.” Owaine let Cullen cradle him, lowering them to rest on the pillows at the head of his bed. “Have you ever...seen something, smelled something, heard something and before you know it you’ve lived your whole life over?”

 

Cullen wrapped his arms protectively around Owaine, burying his nose the elf’s sunny hair. His breath stuttered.

 

Mages everywhere. What used to be Templars littering the chambers like used tissues. The blood was endless, but the templars were all too finite. Hands, he’d never known hands could do so much, or his so little. He knew he was in pain, but could only recall numbness. The tightness of his muscles, the lumps of swelling, the iron on his tongue when he cried out for an end-

 

Owaine’s hair tickled his nose.

 

Cullen could feel ribs under his fingers, chests rising and falling with breath. Owaine’s hair smelled like midnight rain, musty yet clean.

 

“I suppose I have.”

 

Owaine’s body weighed Cullen down to the present, much the same way Cullen’s warm arms kept Owaine from floating away.

 

“I’m so sorry for fighting with you.” Owaine nuzzled his forehead to Cullen’s neck, breathing in his dusty scent.

 

Cullen shook his head, pressing a kiss to the dots of his vallaslin. “I know you aren’t a believer, but I’ve heard it said the Maker does not make mistakes.” Cullen kissed him again, his beard hairs scratching at Owaine’s chin. “If he had not made you this way I may have never been brave enough to let myself love you.”

 

Owaine laughed, paying the kisses back. “Are you trying to tell me that your God fated me with this body for your wellbeing?”

 

Cullen’s face was hot in an instant. “W-Well, no that’s not-”

 

“I don’t know if I believe that, but I suppose, if I don’t think too hard, I do feel comforted.”

 

Cullen sighed, fondness visible in the curved his smile. “You’re such a brat sometimes.”

 

“And you’re a stuffy chant-thumper-”

 

Owaine gasped, Cullen’s fingers between his ribs. He wriggled, jaw tight, fighting for control- he snorted, giggling and thrashing wildly. “Mercy, mercy!” He cried, hands pressed to Cullen’s chest.

 

“You’re perfect the way you are, say it!” Cullen brushed his fingers over a sensitive spot at the small of Owaine’s back, making the man jump in his arms.

 

“I-I’m perfect the way I am!”

 

The tickling ceased with Cullen pulling Owaine to his chest, arms hugging him tight. Owaine rubbed his face on Cullen’s shirt, his eyes teary from laughing. “If I’m a brat then you’re a bully.” He sighed, but accepted the hug lovingly.

 

Cullen could live with that.


	2. The Man I See

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I really understood my gender identity, but recently I've been struggling. I'm starting to realize I've been subconsciously making myself act more feminine than I really am. I think there's a habit of encouraging (cough forcing cough) trans men into a specific kind of role that is submissive and feminine (cough toxic twink/bear culture cough)...
> 
> When I started writing this, I realized. I've never once considered referring to Krem as a "boy", to me Krem is a "man". But I'm certain I've done exactly that to my Inquisitor, who is a self insert. I had a moment when I was putting my (very long) hair into a bun, and I thought to myself. I feel handsome. And it was like, someone saying something so surprising you drop your glass and it shatters. Both of those were such "aha" moments for me. I realized, 6 years into transitioning and I've never thought of myself as a man, or handsome.
> 
> I'm starting to figure myself out, as a man. It was really hard thinking of things that might make my mind and body feel more like one thing, rather than two fighting entities, but I think this fic turned out to be very therapeutic.
> 
> If you enjoyed this fic, you should check out the other fics in the series. Comments are also super appreciated, they're my favorite part of posting fics. You can check out my illustrations inspired by this series on my tumblr: sirotterpup dot tumblr dot com.

Expectations were something you could see physically hanging from Owaine’s shoulders. Their fight, while resolved, still put an ache in Cullen’s heart. He could see the weight of who Owaine thought he needed to be in the way he walked with arms at his sides, elbows poking his ribs, shoulders pulled inward, knees close together. He was small enough and yet he always seemed to be making himself smaller.

 

“If I had been born male would you have still looked at me?”

 

Cullen heard the real meaning behind those words all too clearly, “If I were more masculine would you have still looked at me?”

 

Anger. What a ridiculous question. Masculine? His body had no bearing on his masculinity!... but Cullen’s pleading had yet to find a hole in Owaine’s carefully managed self-doubt. The man truly believed he was too effeminate to qualify as male. As if he’d given up on his identity, Cullen watched him push and pull and break himself into the Little Gay role he seemed to think was his only option.

 

Cullen groaned, slapping the treaty proposal in his hands to his desk. Ink bottles rattled, parchment rustled. He’d had enough of work.

 

\---

 

“Looks like you’ve got work, Boss.” Krem said, putting his wicked grace cards on the table. The Iron Bull snorted, his single eye locked on his cards.

 

Cullen was walking with visible purpose and nearly laughed at the assumption. He was, however, not here for Bull.

 

“Try again.” Bull pursed his lips, likely contemplating whether he wanted to win this round or let one of his men.

 

“Actually, I’m here for you.” Cullen said, bringing his attention to Krem. The man raised a brow, but nodded.

 

“Certainly, Commander.” His voice sounded cautious. “What can I do for yah?”

 

“I’d like to speak in private.”

 

Krem rose from the bench, saying a quick parting word to his company. They walked to the ramparts in silence, until Krem broke it abruptly, much the way he broke most things.

 

“Alright, what’s this all about then?”

 

Cullen surveyed the area one last time before he spoke. “As you know, our Inquisitor is...”

 

Krem’s eyebrow twitched, lips sinking into a frown. “Is this about our gender, sir?” He folded his arms.

 

“Yes, but try not to crucify me just yet.” Cullen rubbed his neck, fighting the embarrassed blush threatening his cheeks. “It has come to my attention that the Inquisitor does not believe he is masculine enough.”

 

Krem’s posture loosened, his arms still folded but his hands resting on his forearms rather than gripping them. Cullen decided this was a good sign.

 

“I was hoping a man of his same situation might have some suggestion for boosting his confidence...?”

 

Krem smiled, dropped his arms to his side.

 

“Alright. Here’s what you’re gonna do.”

 

\---

 

He perhaps had lied to Owaine that his attendance at this particular ball was an important political move, and had several days of travel to appease the highly displeased Inquisitor.

 

“If not to impress some important persons, why are we here?” Owaine was still somewhat miffed upon their arrival to Orlais.

 

_Take him to a ball. Make sure it’s one of those fancy balls, like in Orlais._

 

Cullen stuttered, he wasn’t skilled in lying. “I wanted to do something nice for you.” Well, it wasn’t a complete lie. Owaine sighed, leaning on Cullen as they walked from their carriage to their lodgings for the night.

 

“I appreciate the gesture, but you know I don’t fit in at parties.”

 

_It doesn’t matter if he likes to dance._

 

Cullen found Owaine’s hand, lacing their fingers. “I have reason to believe you will like this one.”

 

They took their time getting prepared for the dance. Cullen brushed Owaine’s half head of long hair, pulling it into a medium-high bun. The thin tips of his pointed ears had flushed, his fingers jumping when Cullen passed his fingers along them. When Owaine caught sight of himself in the vanity mirror, hair pulled back like a nobleman, his eyes lingered.

 

Cullen laid out several options of dress on the bed for Owaine to wear for the evening. He surveyed them each, hesitation building. His fingers caressed the black cotton of the middle option.

 

Sewn specifically for the Inquisitor, the shirt featured strategically placed shoulder pads and seams meant to broaden his chest. The ensemble was mostly black with gold accents. The trousers were just loose enough, seams down the front slimming his wide thighs. The accompanied boots had a small heal, lifting Owaine an inch taller. When Owaine caught sight of himself in the vanity mirror, dressed like a nobleman, his eyes lingered.

 

_Don’t forget to tell him he’s handsome._

 

Cullen had dressed himself, combed through his hair and joined Owaine at the mirror, hands on his waist. The cut of his clothing seemed to be stitched with magic, illuminating a confidence in Owaine rarely visible. Cullen kissed his cheek.

 

“You are so handsome.”

 

Owaine flushed. He patted his hair, but every hair was already in place. He played with the gold buttons running down his front. “I don’t believe I’ve ever felt handsome.”

 

Silence rang, like the moment after releasing a bullet of fire from his fingertips. Owaine’s eyes searched his reflection. Cullen was breathless.

 

They adorned themselves with masks, not concerned with revealing the Inquisitor.

 

Owaine’s mask was black and gold, matching his ensemble. The mask came to a point over his nose, making him birdlike. Cullen’s mask was metal, gold plated, solid and simple to match his horribly Ferelden aesthetic. Owaine chuckled, adjusting Cullen’s mask to sit properly on his face.

 

“You’re going to stick out.”

 

Cullen shrugged. “Perhaps these balls are all about hiding your true self, but I think masks can tell much about the person behind them.”

 

\---

 

Owaine’s hand slipped into Cullen’s, squeezing.

 

“I don’t know about this, Cullen.”

 

Cullen returned the squeeze. “Just one dance, then we can leave. There’s plenty to look at in town.”

 

Owaine took a deep breath, nodding.

 

The ballroom was bustling with probable lords and ladies. Skirts spun and swirled hypnotically, consuming the legs of their male companions. There was more fabric in that single room than in all the Inquisition.

 

No such skirts separated Owaine and Cullen.

 

_It has to be a fancy ball because all the women will be in those obnoxious dresses, but you two will not. That difference will be significant._

 

Cullen lifted their hands into dancing position. He would lead them, as best he knew how.

 

_Dominance isn’t what makes us feel like men._

 

The strings began to hum. Feet all around the ballroom clicked to attention. Cullen’s hand on Owaine’s waist was gentle, but firm. Heads turned to watch the paired men, centered among the dancers.

 

Owaine laughed, bit his lip. “People are staring.”

 

_Let them stare._

 

“They’re jealous.” Cullen whispered. “We’re two attractive men. It’s not quite fair to the other sex, is it?”

 

_He thinks he’s a boy. Always call him a man when given the chance._

 

Owaine flushed, red peeking out from under his mask. “Oh please, that’s not it.” He spoke unconvinced words, but his posture relaxed, fell closer to Cullen.

 

The music was soothingly slow, a gentle rhythm they easily stepped into.

 

“Why did you do this?” Owaine rested his head on Cullen’s chest, presenting his ear to his lover’s lips.

 

“It was Krem’s idea.”

 

Owaine’s head snapped to meet Cullen’s eyes. “Krem?”

 

“I fear you don’t believe in your own masculinity. I asked him what I could do to help you.”

 

Owaine’s eyes fell, glossy under gently furrowed brows. “I-I’m a guy...”

 

_He’s not a boy._

 

“You’re a man.”

 

Owaine searched Cullen’s eyes for answers. Cullen, aware of the eyes on them, drew him in. Lips lightly against lips.

 

“I want you to see the man I see.”

 

Owaine’s toe caught on his other foot, but Cullen maneuvered them through the dance.

 

“When I said, I’d never felt handsome before...” He breathed, slow and deep, contemplating. “I didn’t realize what I’d said until after I said it. I didn’t realize that I... felt that way, about myself.”

 

The song was coming to a close. With the instruments eased into the final chord, Owaine dropped Cullen’s hand and pulled him by the cheeks to meet him in a kiss.

 

Cullen had put little faith in Krem’s advice, certain the man was dooming him. Yet he followed his words, the only words of experience available to him, trusting in something he could never hope to understand.

 

And for the first time in his life, Owaine felt handsome.

 

He laughed, holding Cullen’s face close, foreheads touching.

 

“Thank you.”


End file.
